


I've slept so long without you.

by eeeeeeeeeerenjaegar



Category: Devil May Cry, Devil May Cry 4
Genre: M/M, and baby dantes, uuuhhh enjoy some sad dantes, wow gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 12:24:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3610005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeeeeeeeeerenjaegar/pseuds/eeeeeeeeeerenjaegar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dante has nice dreams sometimes. Other times, he doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've slept so long without you.

**Author's Note:**

> hi! uh i really like writing gore for this fandom, so enjoy some baby dantes  
> goes against canon in some places kinda sorta, but hey, it's his dream, so 
> 
> enjoy friends! ;v;

     Dante doesn't remember his mother much.

     She often appears in his dreams, though. Her blonde hair tied up, coffee in one hand, a book in the other. She's always on the couch, or in the kitchen reading while dinner's simmering on their gas stove. Vergil is in his room and Dante shadows Eva, small feet right on her heels when she moves.

     "Mama," he'll say, smiling.

     "Dante," she'll repeat, looking down at her son, her eyes full of fondness. She always looked at him and Vergil that way, like they were her whole world, her reason to live. He'll smile at her, smile at the way she says his name. She'll swipe white hair out of his eyes, and say quietly, "It's time for a haircut, Dante."

     They're nice dreams.

     Sometimes.

     Other times, he remembers her screams. He remembers the way she tried so desperately to hide him and Vergil, how desperately she begged him to stay hidden.

     "Dante!" she pleads, her voice cracking. "Dante, no matter what happens, you musn't come out! You musn't, Dante, please."

     Dante weakly whimpers "Mom--" but she won't have it.

     "Dante, please, listen to me. They'll kill you. Stay here."

     "Mama, Vergil--"

     "Vergil will be alright, Dante! Please, you must listen to me! You must understand, little one. I'll be alright. But I refuse to see you or your brother buried. Stay, Dante, please."

     And Dante nods, his small hands and arms shaking as Eva tucks him farther into the hiding spot in the garden.

     "I love you, mom."

     Eva stares.

     "I love you more, Dante."

 

     She leaves him.

 

     One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. Four.

     He can't take it.

     So Dante, eight years old and afraid, rushes out of his hiding spot. Dante, eight years old and still unable to get his father's Rebellion off the ground all the way, rushes to save his mother with nothing more than a rock in his hand.

     And when he rushes into the front room, the demons don't see him, their wicked and knotted forms stuck on the dissected woman in front of them. Eva's hair is red, her skull cracked open and blood soaking the walls through to the dry wall, and the carpet's deflated. Eva's veins are visible, the tendons of her thin, pale arms being ripped out by rotten teeth with sickening pops. Gangled hands dig into her stomach, pulling out her organs, blood and flesh, and what isn't consumed falls with a squish, melting over the carpet.

     Dante doesn't move. He doesn't scream. He just watches, letting the smell of copper and death invade and haze his senses.

     He just whispers.

     "Mama."

     The demons don't see him, but instead move to tear out Eva's windpipe out of her long, slender neck. If she wasn't dead before, she was now, and Dante could do nothing. Where was Vergil? Father? Why weren't they helping?

     He supposes it didn't matter now.

 

     That's generally about the time he wakes up, caked in sweat and hair slick. He doesn't jolt, he doesn't scream. Dante's just... On his back. He's not panting, he's not crying. He's just sweating like a sinner in church.

     Something behind Dante's eyes burns, a signal that the irises have likely turned a dilute red. He sits up, rubs his face, and gives a brief look around out of paranoia. His eyes float to a splayed out figure next to him-- It's Nero, clearly unbothered by Dante's shuffling. For a moment, his heart skips.

     For just three seconds, the moonlight forces Dante's eyes to see something he never wanted to see. His partner's body torn open like his mother's, blood soaking the sheets. Dante looks away, and for a minute he realizes that could easily become reality. If Dante isn't careful, if Nero isn't careful, he'll-- Devil Bringer will stop glowing, and the older hunter really isn't interested in seeing that.

     "You good?" comes a groggy voice, nearly startling Dante off the bed.

     "Good." he replies almost too quickly, and Nero shifts to look at him.

     The older hunter watches the younger, looking at his blue eyes dulled by exhaustion. Nero closes his eyes slowly and yawns, arms under his pillows.

     "C'mere, big guy." Nero sighs, rolling onto his back.

     "Why?" Dante asks, kicking himself after. The answer was obvious.

     "So I can punch you in the mouth, Dante. C'mere, put your head on my chest." Nero says with a bit of a bite to his voice.

     Dante complies. He flops back down, arm falling across Nero and head under his chin. The younger grunts, laughing almost inaudibly.

     "You cuddlin' me, kid?"

     "Yup." Nero's response is automatic. He knows.

     Nero always knows. He always understand. It's what mates are for.

 

     To be honest, Dante's pretty damn glad he put a metaphorical ring on it.


End file.
